


Foulard Follies

by blithesea



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: M/M, Ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithesea/pseuds/blithesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sonny notices stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foulard Follies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [headbuttingbears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/gifts), [wordhouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordhouse/gifts).



Sonny notices stuff.

He is a detective, it is his job to be observant, mindful of details. Though it doesn't really take much to notice what a clotheshorse the Manhattan SVU's go-to ADA is. Barba is hitting everyone over the head with it, a big fat mallet of bespoke suits, striped shirts, paisley suspenders, ties in all the colors of the rainbow, matching socks, complementary handkerchiefs in impossibly intricate shapes, which make Sonny suspect that Barba, despite the rumours of yachts and skiing trips and opera nights, doesn't really have a life to speak of. The man obviously spends his every free minute folding and pressing his pocket squares.

This level of dedication to professional attire is not something Sonny is used to. Sure, he goes to work in suit and tie, like most of his colleagues. He is pleased with himself for having the foresight to keep a spare shirt stashed away in his desk for whenever he manages to mess one up with coffee or pizza sauce or blood. He keeps his ties in a shoe-box on the closet's top shelf, neatly rolled, and throws socks away when they develop holes. Barba, Sonny knows, is playing in a whole different league.

And why not? He is the big man, the one who struts around the SVU's office like he owns the place. Who is a god in the courtroom, only ever stopped by the thickness of juror skulls. At least that is how Barba presents himself, and Sonny notices that the flashy outfits are a big part of it all. Barba doesn't just dress to impress. He dresses to stun the world into submission.

Sonny has gotten used to it. More than that. In some way, though he wouldn't admit to it out loud, to anyone, ever, he has started to look forward to the whole razzle-dazzle. Barba puts so much effort into it, it seems a shame not to notice. Right?

The ADA doesn't grace the precinct with his presence every day, nor are there that many court dates for Sonny to attend. Which makes it a special thing, in a way. Seeing Barba.

First noticing the suit. The cut of it, the color. Remembering previous instances when Barba has worn it, perhaps. Then getting a first look at the tie, the suspenders. Taking in the whole picture. Appreciating the delicate composition of colors and texture. Sonny imagines how Barba might look at himself in the mirror, right before he leaves home and goes to work, and he tries to look at Barba in that way. He gets a secret kick out of noticing little details which will remain unknown to the casual observer who doesn't get as close to Barba as Sonny does. Like when the little dots on Barba's tie are actually flowers, or sunbursts. Or that time his socks complement not his shirt, or his tie, but the color of his vest's lining.

In court, Barba will wear his suit like it is steel armour, and it is a sight to behold. But there are the other moments, the times Sonny likes even better, when their little group is among themselves, detectives and counselor, discussing a case, and the armour starts to come off, little by little. As soon as he steps into his office, Barba loosens his tie. He takes off his suit jacket, carefully folds it and hangs it over the back of his chair. Sonny likes the way he handles the jacket, it seems respectful somehow. Sonny doesn't think it's just because clothes like that cost a lot of money. He is pretty sure Barba is loaded, can afford to buy as much Cerruti and Armani and Zegna and Lauren as he wants. He doesn't have to worry about wrinkles, but he does. Sonny thinks he gets it.

On the best days, Barba rolls up his sleeves.

The ties, though. Sonny wasn't sure if he just imagined it, at first. He is spending way too much time thinking about Barba's suits and looking at his ties, he is bound to read too much into it all. But there seems to be a connection there. The way Barba's ties seem to go with his mood.

Nothing as crude as red stripes equalling rage, purple roses hinting at heartbreak, or crap like that. It is all a lot more subtle, a play of colours and patterns and texture. It has taken Sonny awhile to make sense of it. But now he is fairly certain he can read the code of ties. Can take one look at a jubilant green tie with blue and purple squares and know that Barba is feeling unconvinced, conflicted, likely to consider a plea deal. Knows as soon as he sees a flirty pink silk number that Barba is going in for the kill at the witness stand, no holds barred. Guesses correctly when with the shiny orange dotted one, Barba is at his most officious and patently smug. Sonny still gets it wrong some times. But more often than not, his little hunches are dead on target.

Which is why he has started to worry a bit. Lately, something seems off, and the only way Sonny can explain that feeling is by looking at Barba's ties. To the untrained eye, they seem fine. Tasteful, as usual. But knowing what kind of ties Barba likes, they seem somewhat... lackluster. Somber. Depressed, even. 

Sonny can pinpoint the time it started. The Walter Briggs case, which Barba had to settle out of court. But that doesn't make sense. Sure, it was a high profile case, and they didn't really come out of it with colors flying. Still, Barba doesn't seem like the guy who would take that to heart. There has to be something else.

Casually testing the subject around the other detectives hasn't turned up anything. To them, Barba is his usual self. And Sonny can't really tell them why he is asking. Can't let on that the thinly striped blue-brown tie he saw around Barba's neck the other day is alarming him.

This night, at trial prep in Barba's office, Sonny finds himself staring at a burgundy tie with sad little blue droplets.

What on earth is he going to do about this? Talk to the Sergeant? She's likely to think that he is crazy. Or obsessed. A crazy, obsessed stalker, projecting onto the only sexy alpha male in his vicinity. No, telling Benson about this is out of the question. Is there a number he can call anonymously, some kind of suicide hotline for state employees with a fashion fetish?

"Detective?"

Sonny snaps upright. He looks around, hoping against hope that Barba was addressing Nick and not him. But Nick isn't there, and Sonny remembers he left half an hour ago to go to his daughter's dance recital. Barba is staring at him, waiting for an answer. Sonny ducks his head, tries a smile. It doesn't catch.

"Sorry, I was just..." He can't think of an excuse why he would be zoning out looking at the ADA's tie, and after a moment of grasping for something to say, Sonny gives up and shrugs.

Barba sighs, put upon. He leans back in his chair, nods at the clock on his desk. "It's growing late, detective. I suppose if you can't give this your full attention anymore, I better continue on my own." He waves his hand at Sonny and the door, and resumes jotting down notes with his gold pen.

Dismissed. Barba is giving him a free pass on the long night of drudge work that has been looming over Sonny's head. He really wants to jump up and leave before Barba changes his mind. But then he mulls the idea over. He's alone with Barba, and that doesn't actually happen that often. More like never. So maybe he better make the most of this. 

"Actually," he starts, and gets up from his chair, stuffing his hands into his pocket. He feels like he needs to say something, talk about this. Only how? At the best of times, Sonny and Barba don't exchange pleasantries. To ask about his mental state seems like crossing a line.

"Yes?" Barba asks, intent on his notes. Sonny is still teetering on the fence, stay or leave, fight or flight, but the curtness helps, somehow. Barba isn't looking at him, and that makes it easier too.

"Are you... feeling okay?"

That does make Barba stop writing, at least. He looks up at Sonny, uncomprehendingly, his pen hovering in the air.

"What?"

The desk is still between them, like a big wooden shield. Sonny remembers his training. Body language. Don't intimidate the witness. This kind of thing better work on irritable lawyers... He walks over slowly to Barba's side, leans against the desk, hands in his pockets, a picture of non-chalance. He shrugs slightly, smiles. "I don't know, it just seems that lately you've been..."

Sad? Morose? Depressed?

"Down."

Barba leans back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. "Oh? And you base your astute psycho-analysis on what, exactly?"

Sonny blinks. He hasn't expected this question. Granted, he has gone into this with very little semblance of a plan other than, get Barba to talk, commiserate, lend a helping ear. Hand. Whatever.

"It's your ties."

While his brain is still thinking about a plausible explanation that won't involve stepping on the ADA's toes, his mouth chooses that moment to run into the opposite direction. Great.

"They're getting kinda gloomy," he adds by way of explanation, and now that he has started, he doesn't know how to stop. "I mean, they're okay, but there's a difference between that and normal, and you didn't use to dress like that. Like, usually your ties got a lot more..." he searches for a good word. "Zing."

Barba doesn't say anything at first, and Sonny really wishes he had high-tailed it out of there the moment Barba gave the green light. But he is in for it now.

"I see." Barba's voice is deceptively soft, like the way it goes before he slams a rival attorney's defense to the ground.

"So you think my choice of ties hasn't been up to par." He cocks his head to the side.

"And of course, it would be silly to disregard the sartorial gut feeling of someone who dresses like an undertaker's apprentice."

Sonny leans back, mildly offended. "Hey now. There's no need to get personal."

"How could this get any MORE personal?" Barba pushes himself up and out of the chair, stands at eye-level now, hands on his hips, and his voice has gotten loud, but that isn't bad, it reminds Sonny of fights he has had at home, squabbles with his siblings. People start yelling, it clears the air. Barba could do with a bit of that. And his secretary has gone home hours ago.

"Listen," Sonny tries again, "I'm not here to put sand in your coffee maker or sodomize your sister, I was only trying to help!"

"Help?" Barba laughs, not a real laugh, just a snort to show how fundamentally WRONG Sonny is. "How?"

And just like that, Sonny knows what to do. There's only one thing he can do now. A brilliant idea. And he'll never do it if he thinks at all about it. Sonny takes Barba's face in his hands and kisses him.

Fuck, but there is a second of nothing. Barba doesn't react. Doesn't lean in or pull away, and Sonny's heart thuds hard in his chest. He holds his breath, waits for the inevitable point when Barba will pull away, start to yell at him, call Benson or the Chief or the National Guard, why on Earth did he ever think this was a good idea even in the slightest--

And then Barba's hand is on his waist and Sonny is no longer kissing, he is being kissed. Barba is kissing him. Is leaning into him, and with the desk at his back, Sonny has nowhere to go, thank god. There is Barba, and he's sucking on Sonny's lower lip and then their tongues touch, and, well, _fuck_. Barba bumps his crotch into Sonny's, making Sonny moan, and he swears he can feel Barba smile into the kiss. Smug bastard. Trust him to be as good at making out as he is at _everything_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You made a stain on my carpet."

The silly smile is still on Sonny's face.

"Yeah," he says, trying not to be too obviously pleased about it.

"So this was your great plan to cheer me up," Barba murmurs somewhere close to his ear.

His voice sounds so intimate and a little dirty, it makes Sonny flush a bit. He looks up warily. But Barba doesn't look pissed. If anything, he looks lazy and sated. Call that a job well done.

"It worked, didn't it?" Sonny says, only a tad defensively.

"I don't know," Barba says, and voice is even, his face is straight, except for his eyes, which are laughing at Sonny.

"Maybe you better do it again, just to be sure."

**Author's Note:**

> This is all my cookie's fault. She set my brain on fire a couple of weeks ago by making me aware of the Barisi fandom in general and the mindblowing awesome of Raúl Esparza in particular. That's her over there now, cackling and roasting marshmallows on the flames. Thank you. <3


End file.
